


my heart is the locket around your neck

by grandstander



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: M/M, cries quietly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first kiss isn’t shared, it’s more stolen from a quiet moment and tucked into the most private, precious corners of Brady’s heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is the locket around your neck

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i havent played the game yet :T   
> i really like brady and owain though and theyre probs my otp for the game so i did my best trying to characterize them   
> i hope its not too terrible

Their first kiss isn’t shared, it’s more stolen from a quiet moment and tucked into the most private, precious corners of Brady’s heart. 

Much like many other things, Brady trusts Owain. For many antics and dramatics, there is an underlying glow under the gilded cuffs of heroics, something that says acceptance and security, something that says ‘trust me.’ Brady does, though he’d never say, that’s not something you can say, but it’s something he feels, feels deep down in his heart and in his soul and in every thing he is. He trusts Owain. 

He always feels a pang of guilt when crying, when he’s found crying; he cries so damn easily, he wishes he didn’t and it’s one of the many things he picks at about himself. He picks at everything, the scar on his face, his level of skill, his habit of speech, his broad shoulders that would be handsome if he didn’t slouch and bumble about like an idiot and if he weren’t so scrawny. Owain tells him it is okay, though, and Brady believes him. He still tries to cover his face out of habit, but his body curls less and he shoulder turn his back and shield himself by hunching, as if to curl into a protective ball. It’s more like Owain shields him, or so it feels like it. Though he often puts up a defensive, Owain keeps his word and doesn’t tell about Brady’s crying, about the tears that well at the corners of his eyes so often. Instead, he simply ruffles blond hair and pulls the taller down, ‘til the priest’s forehead is resting on Owain’s shoulder.

Brady trusts him, so he cries, sniffles and rather than curl into himself, curls around Owain. 

It’s in such trust that begins the foundations of friendship, the foundation of loyalty and of plucking heartstrings to play a tune. It’s almost funny, for Brady is the instrumentalist, yet it is Owain who draws the beat in his chest that makes his breath catch, makes the organ leap forward and makes him worry and fret. Of course he’s elated, a feeling so intense that it makes his body rise and fill up with god knows what-- the same light that Owain emits? Perhaps. All Brady knows is that it is golden and beautiful, oh so beautiful, just like the fighter that speaks in limericks and makes Brady worry like no other. With such a happiness and devotion comes little clouds of fret and fear, though, the fear of losing them because you start to love them. 

Because Brady trusts him, Brady’s fingers start to grasp at the back of Owain’s robes and Owain spares him these soft glances, Brady places his heart within the rib cage of his soldier. It is wrapped neatly and carefully, delicate-- and for all Owain’s roughness and brash attitude, Brady would still not give his heart to another. Owain’s glances are warm, bright, his eyes glow and he laughs and he seems to be in such high spirits all the time. It makes it a little easier for Brady, too. 

Owain speaks in that sort of grandulous way, but it becomes sweeter-- he speaks to Brady in it, speaks about him. Reassures him time and time again with a hand that rests upon broad knuckles and a face that leans too close, close enough to make Brady’s eyes dry up and to make his heart pitter patter. 

Because Brady trusts him, he lays himself open just slightly and he lends his lips to him, his first kiss given to the blond warrior. Owain is eager, he seems to be boundlessly overflowing with an affection that is just being tapped into, and he soaking in the moment, having been given such a grand pleasure. His excitement gives way to hints of roughness, but he is sweet in all gestures, pressing smaller kisses against cracked, thin lips of a taller boy who’s fingers are curled tightly into yellow robes. He speaks to Brady in a hushed voice, kissing away worry and pain-- slowly moving to words that were all but lovesick as he pressed his cheek to Brady’s own, voice low and gentle in his ear as he spoke like a real poet, a poet in love and soaring high. 

For all that swells in their hearts and all that they feel, for all Owain’s words and Brady’s slow opening to his own desires, it is not a grand event-- well, it is and it is not. For them, it is, but on the surface it just seems to be a slightly prolonged kiss shared in some dark shadows behind tall curtains. Brady tries to speak, but his words fail on his lips, instead his skin burning warm shades of color as he presses his forehead to the shorter man’s, eyes staring downward and not meeting Owain’s. 

Owain laughs weakly under his breath, a hand raising so that a curled finger may brush against the skin of the priest’s cheek, before the hand settled against Brady’s face.

“Worry not, oh beloved. Your heart is more resilient than my body, all will be well.”


End file.
